


Falling And Failing

by Fantasticly_Anonymous



Series: Falling And Failing Verse; Ridiculousness, Seriousness, and Several Things Imbetween [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Angst and Humor, BAMF Leonard "Bones" McCoy, BAMF Spock, Blood and Gore, Description Of Open Wound, Disaster, Gen, Hurt Kirk, Hurt/Comfort, Kirk Whump, Medical Kink, Medical Trauma, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Off-screen Deaths, Protective Leonard "Bones" McCoy, Protective Spock, Serious Injuries, Some Humor, Starship Enterprise (Star Trek), Stranded, medical drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2018-09-20 01:13:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9468818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantasticly_Anonymous/pseuds/Fantasticly_Anonymous
Summary: Jim and Spock are in a bit of a pickle. If by 'a bit of a pickle', you mean; definitely going to die. That's about what you get when you mix those two with ionic storms and an unexplored alien planet, I suppose. Rated M for blood, minor gore, and language. Enjoy!





	1. Fried

"Captain! Jim!"

Reality snapped back like a primed rubber band to the frontal lobe.

He was sitting in the middle of a disaster area. Everything was wrong. Very wrong. The entire transport was skewed. Some of the floor mounted computer stations were sticking through what used to be view screens and non of the overhead lighting was "overhead" anymore.  
Worst of all was the smell. Burnt electronics was never a _good_ smell, but usually someone would cut the power before this much damage was done. By the terrible sound coming - presumably - from the external engines you'd think a couple flocks of pigeons had nested in there and not gotten the eviction notice from the flight prep team.  
Or else, there were rocks being fed through the things. Toss up really.

"Captain James T. Kirk," At the use of his title his head snapped to attention, completely on automatic, and from across the room he caught sight of a very exotic looking-

"Spock?"

"Yes, Captain. We are in a situation. I need you to bring-"

"Why's your face black?" There were more questions floating around in his head, begging for an answer, but that one was screaming loudest.

"I have not the time to explain, Captain; this man is dying. Ensign Rogue, engineering department, here on your request for his extensive knowledge of xeno-atmospheric conditions and anomalies and for his first hand experience collecting general data on ionic storms whilst stationed on the Gamma Beta 12 Observatory; along with Ensign Jordan who, 2.7 minutes ago, was lost through that window."

Jim glance to the aft wall and a second of scrutinizing cleared away any doubts. Someone had most certainly gone through that window and they'd left a little behind. A scrap of red uniform and a trickle of red blood caught to the glass teeth ringing the opening. A port hole, which looked as if it really wasn't designed for a grown, human body to fit through. Maybe if he hadn't let his eyes linger he'd have been spared the sight of a long, black, slightly curled lock of hair dangling from a silver dollar sized piece of scalp caught between two especially wicked teeth.  
He nearly gagged.

"Captain, Ensign Jordan is gone. I believe we can save Ensign Rogue but we need the medical kit which is located underneath the floor panel just to your left to do so." From then, Spock spoke a tad slower which helped the discombobulated Jim keep up with his first officer's formal wording. "Captain, your left. Yes, underneath that. No, there is not a key. The release catch is 7 inches right of your thumb. Yes, then twist. Now you may pull the panel free." His instructions rang true across the twenty - give or take - feet between them, bouncing around in the ship designed to transport at least twenty-five and holding only three at the time.

Jim's fingers were about as dexterous as a bunch of sausages wadded up in a set of mittens, trying to pass themselves off as his normal set of hands. He wasn't a fan of the sausage hands. Aside from that, he was also certain that he'd retrieved a medical kit from a very similar compartment on a very similar transport ship on at least three separate occasions. That he needed someone to walk him through the process then - of all times - was an ultimately sad joke of a reality.

He forced his fingers to cooperate long enough to pry the kit free of the compartment, then he wondered what came next.

"Captain," the Vulcan called, "please bring that here now. Ensign Rogue will not last long without the proper attention."

Jim went to stand and promptly lost his balance, landing on his rear and causing the entire transport to tremble. Not at all what he'd meant to do. Especially considering he was now a foot and a half farther from the pair who needed the kit.

With the second attempt he made it to his feet and managed to pick his way through the field of debris between him and them. Impressing himself, just a little. Halfway there, a thought came to him, which he spoke for the record.

"Mr. Spock, I think this whole thing would've taken a lot less time if you'd just come over and gotten this yourself."

"Agreed Captain, but unfortunately, that was not an option." Before Jim had the time to ask 'why', he was close enough to see the reason for himself.  
Spock was down in a sprawling kneel by the blue clad ensign's side, with both his hands spanning nearly the entire circumference around a very bloody one of Rogue's thighs. The pant leg was ripped so that the injury was completely exposed.

"I set the ensign's femur but it was, by then, obvious that his rate of blood loss would prove fatal in very short order if left unchecked. Because there was nothing close which would serve as a satisfactory tourniquet I had no other option than to apply a tourniquet's amount of pressure myself. Therefore, I could not leave this man's side."  
Jim nodded, lowered himself opposite his first officer and got a good look at the damage. It was appalling.

"What happened?" Jim asked, a little disappointed that he wasn't able to keep the rough edge out of his voice. The image of torn flesh and oozing blood a supremely unappreciated one, so he coughed and pointedly looked only in his first officer's face, waiting on his response.

"Captain, if you would ready the medical kit?"

"Right, right! Damn it Spock, I don't know what's wrong with me." He lamented as he fumbled for the child safe closure.

"The most likely affliction would be a median severity concussion. You were unconscious for 2.9 minutes and judging by the blood trail now approaching your collar; the bulkheads were designed without any consideration to the fragility of the human skull in mind." The presumable fact that Spock was making a valiant attempt at humor was completely lost on the Captain as he finally worked the lid open.

"Gotcha," Jim mumbled as the closure gave and he wondered, not for the first time, why someone had decided these things needed child safe closures? Especially when stored in hidden storage compartments aboard federation class transport vehicles? You'd think that any child unlucky enough to find themselves aboard such a vessel would only try and access the contents of a med kit if there was some sort of life and death situation going down. Can you say design flaw?

"Captain?" Jim looked up from the pristine contents of the kit into that black stained, Vulcan face. How had that happened again?  
"Captain, I must call upon you to apply the medical aid skills and knowledge you acquired under the guidance of Dr. McCoy in the course he mandated all command officers and routine landing party members train through. One which has already aided me in the treatment of Ensign Rogue."

"What do you need me to do?"

Spock's expression sobered to the nth degree as he said, "This is a delicate process Captain, as I am sure you are aware. Considering your concussion it would only be logical that I perform the procedure but, as I am the only one present with grip strength equaling what is required to cut off the necessary percentage of blood flow, the job must fall to you." His eyes seemed to soften for a moment but it just as well could have been a trick of the flickering lights. "You have my every confidence, Captain."

Now Jim was nervous. The situation was that serious? Mentally shrugging off the weightiness set on him by the well meaning Vulcan he pulled a long, thin, shiny probe from the bowels of the med kit and switched it on. "

"Thanks Mr. Spock, your words move me. What was it that you needed me to do, again? Exactly?"

The first officer blinked. "My apologies, Captain. I call for haste and yet I slow the process myself." Spock looked like he wanted to palm himself in the face as he spoke. "You are holding the arterial repair probe; the correct instrument to begin with but it is set to the incorrect function. The red indicator light must be blue before you can proceed."

Jim would have blushed if a headache hadn't just swept in and removed his ability to care about what anybody thought. "Whoops. O.K., got it now. So you need me to repair an artery? I can't see Jack with these malfunctioning lights," he said, with a quick gesture around the transport.

"Yes Captain, the superficial femoral artery was severed as Ensign Rogue was pinned by one of the navigational units which broke loose directly after our engines failed. At the same time, his femur and his pelvis were both fractured, with the former taking the brunt of the weight of the unit for over half of a second before we were flipped once more.  
"As for the poor lighting conditions…I regret that the only course which can be taken, with no other equipment available, is a tactile exploration prior to reconstruction of said artery."

At Jim's dawning look of disbelief Spock added, "It is the only way to be sure, Captain."

Jim had never taken himself for the squeamish type but then again; he'd never been asked to reach inside another person's body and noodle around for a damaged artery either. Without any kind of sterile field either! He supposed, with an unconcealed shudder, that everyone has their limits.

"You will know when you have found it. The texture is unmistakable."

"Yeah, like you've done this before," Jim replied, fingers wriggling through the opening in the ragged skin while he concentrated on not losing his lunch. Or breakfast or whatever.

"Yes, only minutes ago." Jim paused his search long enough to send Spock a sharp, questioning look. To that, Spock continued. "That is how I learned the extent of the damage. Also how I was able to set the femur with no margin of error. It, once again, is perfectly aligned."  
And he said it with no perceptible compunction- not one tell to give away an underlying sense of discomfort while, across from him, his Captain - his superior officer - was trembling and sweating as if he'd just given birth to twins.

Jim wondered whether there was anything left that could trip up his first officer. After the whole Nero fiasco and the righteous wrath of Kahn, it seemed as though things bothered the Vulcan less than ever before. At the same time though, it was obvious - to the main bridge staff anyway - that Spock had somehow found a way to accept happiness as a logical response to things not falling to shit.  
He hadn't started smiling - that would be sacrilegious - but there was something he did with his eyes on days that went right. This was not one of those days.

"Ah, found you! Ya little scamp," Jim said, as his fingertips felt something that wasn't blood or flesh.

"From here, you will know what to do. Dr. McCoy is an excellent instructor."

"No," Jim smirked. It was Spock's turn to give a sharp, questioning look. "Dr. McCoy is an ass and doubly so when you're on his turf. Nurse Chapel on the other hand, is a fiiine instructor."

"Captain, Nurse Chapel was not an instructor." Spock said, his head quirked to one side. "She was Dr. McCoy's assistant. By the conclusion of the course I do believe that we had accumulated as much hands on experience as she had. Considering that earth's medical schools teach primarily with holographic representations, it may well have been her first time working around a cadaver. Which would explain her stark pallor and-"

"Shh, Mr. Spock. I'm in the middle of surgery here," Jim griped with mock annoyance.

"Apologies Captain, I shall keep any further acknowledgment short."

Jim found it easier and easier to ignore the smell of blood and the grizzly nature of the wound as he worked. All his concentration going into repairing damage. A smile nearly broke through his concentration at the realization that he was performing surgery on a living being. Without a Federation issued medical license and, to his knowledge, without the patient's consent.  
Someone was going to get in trouble for that, but it sure as hell wasn't going to be the Captain. Neither would the blame fall to Spock; Jim would see to that.

No, by Jim's estimation, Dr. McCoy was the only one to blame. He was the board certified physician who'd forced every command crewmember and every routine away team member into med bay and armed them with such atrocious knowledge.  
Without McCoy's obviously reckless and off protocol crash course, Jim would not be closing up someone's thigh artery. He'd be watching the man bleed to death as his first officer tried his damnedest to walk his captain through the impossibly complicated process which Jim had no doubt that the Vulcan would have known how to perform, even without the doctor's med school 101.

Maybe Jim preferred things the way they were going after all.

"Mr. Spock, the artery is back to full health. I believe it's time to close," said the Captain. In response, Spock whispered something which Jim didn't quite catch; the dying sound of the engines tearing themselves to pieces still killing all sound below 40 decibels. "What was that?"

"The femur, Captain."

Jim waited a second but the Vulcan didn't continue."What about it?"

"It is still fractured."

Jim rolled his aching eyes. "Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"I-," Spock gave the Vulcan equivalent of a grimace. "You told me to be quiet. I did not wish to interject and run the risk of breaking your concentration, Captain."

Jim blinked twice, then found the necessary words. "I was kidding, Mr. Spock. Your insight is always appreciated," he said, reaching for the med kit as he finished.

"In that case Captain, may I suggest that the arterial repair probe be switched to the 'inert' setting?"

"Mr. Spock?" Jim said as he switched the thing off and set it down.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Shut up."

"Yes, Captain."

Jim grabbed the bone mender, switched it on and began plugging in the necessary numbers. The sequences were simple and once completed, the actual mending would take only a couple hand fulls of seconds. After that, maybe a week and the ensign would be good to go. Not for a marathon or anything crazy but, not bad for a hand held unit.

About the same time Jim had convinced himself that Spock definitely understood the humorous nature of his barb, he noticed a tremor run through the ensign's leg. A quick glance revealed that the ensign had not begun to stir, but in fact; Mr. Spock was struggling against his own, now trembling arms to keep the stranglehold pressure constant around the thigh. Jim's own body was beginning to protest the fact that he was reaching over a left leg in order to access the right. He thought a switch might do them both some good.

"Mr. Spock, what say we switch sides on the count of three?"  
Spock's brow wrinkled as he glanced up.

"I am afraid I cannot, Captain."

"O.K. then," Jim said, a tad irritated. "Count of five work for you?"

"The count is inconsequential. The action itself would be impossible, as I am pinned by the very same navigational unit which delivered Ensign Rogue to this critical state."

It was then Jim noticed, in the half dead lighting, that the large block of hardware sitting behind his first officer was in fact resting on top one of the Vulcan's legs, half way up to the knee.

"I am fortunate though, that the unit came to rest in a much more favorable fashion on me than it did Ensign Rogue. Also, I am fortunate for my Vulcan heritage, as it ensures I will walk away with no significant injuries. The difficulty exists solely in removing myself from underneath the console." At Jim's lack of a response he beseeched, "Captain, you cannot free me. Please continue the surgery."

Jim nodded. "So that's the real reason you didn't get the kit yourself? I thought Vulcan's didn't lie," he said, setting to work on the femur.

"An exclusion of fact, when and where that fact would serve no benefit, is - even to a Vulcan - an acceptable method of simplifying and expediting sensitive situations. Knowing that I am pinned would not have impacted your performance in any positive manner. Therefore, it went unmentioned."

"Whatever you say, Spock," He replied, dropping the 'Mr.' out of sheer annoyance. It'd serve the Vulcan right, and besides; it didn't take as long to say.  
"Switching to dermal regenerater," he said, just to keep up the pretense that this was an actual surgery and not a couple of complete hacks groping around in the dark.

"The proper setting in this instance-"

"I know, Spock. It's just…hard to make out the display in this lighting," he said, squinting all the while and bringing the squat probe's numerical output closer and closer to his face. Praying it came into focus before he put out an eye.  
"There we go!" He set the thing to the perfect frequency with absolutely no help from the lying, piss poor excuse of a first officer known as Spock, but before Jim could get back to his off-protocol doctoring, fate made it's stance on the matter abundantly clear.

A terrible screeching wracked the air. A half second later, barely enough time for captain and first officer to meet each other's eyes, the entire transport pitched forward and in the middle of the sudden, violent movement, Jim felt something hit him. Hard enough that he was knocked off his knees and out of consciousness.  
As the transport plummeted, even though he felt the weightlessness associated with a long fall and a big splat, he was aware of little aside from his sudden 'mother of all headaches' and the one faint, echoed shout of, "Jim!"


	2. Scrambled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the piece you were likely just reading, or which you likely read recently! Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey ya'll, Anonymous here!  
> This was originally posted as part two of my sis's birthday present and I'd like everyone to take this moment to help me sing her the birthday song. Pretty please!? We won't owe anyone royalties! I swear~! : )  
> As soon as you've finished with the cake and ice cream reward, you may assist the birthday girl in enjoying a game of "Will Kirk and Spock survive this one?".
> 
> Without further ado:

The first thing he was really aware of, aside from the headache, was the soft, fresh breeze playing across his face and its lack of the offensive smell of burned electronics. Then the sandy earth beneath and the hard packed mound he was propped against. Not quite sitting, not quite lying and definitely no longer trapped in the transport.  
There was also that annoying, droning voice getting louder and- hey, wait a sec. Was that Spock? He regained his sense of hearing at that point.

"-is unconscious, as has been his stable condition over the past 8.6 minutes. I have taken us far enough from the transport ship as to be deemed safe in the case of a complete engine core meltdown and subsequent explosion.  
"The engines and primary thrusters are still attempting to follow through with the standard self repair protocol. Unfortunately, judging by the nature of our landing and the shrill wailing the engines have only recently come to produce, I believe the entire transport to be a hopeless case.  
"We are therefore forced to locate shelter and supplies as can be afforded on this relatively undocumented planet and from whatever base we manage to establish, we will endeavor to track down the original group of Starfleet research personnel. As was our initial mission and indeed; the cause that brought us to this predicament." There was a pause in his clipped barrage of dictation. Jim knew that if Spock were human he would be sighing or chewing his lip, but knowing Spock as he did, there was no doubt in his foggy mind that the Vulcan would do nothing more human than stare off into the distance.  
"The ensigns Rogue and Jordan were both lost in the crash."

That…that just wasn't right; it couldn't be! Not after all they'd done- how close to the clear they'd gotten! Someone so cruelly close to saved to end up…not?  
Life could be a real bitch.

Swallowing a bleak sense of hopelesness, Jim let his first officer continue his log entry. It promised to be informative, if not only depressing.

"When and if this recording is submitted to Starfleet records department it must be noted that Ensign Rogue and Ensign Jordan both died in the line of duty, with no reservations. They were excellent additions to the fleet and their families deserve what little comfort these words may bring them."

If Jim was hearing that right; Spock was getting dangerously close to sentimental. He supposed working in the same lab, as Spock had with the ensign Rogue, was a good way to get to know someone. Maybe the Vulcan had even grown to like the kid. Whatever the case, that little tint of emotion was absent in the next portion of his entry.

"I now know that the transport, as a result of the total engine failure caused - presumably - by the sudden onset of an ionic storm and other, unknown forces, had initially crashed on the sloping rim of a mesa, some twenty meters above the valley floor. The second plummet was simply a matter of gravity getting the better of a temporary and precipitous perch.  
"We are fortunate that the ground was not comprised chiefly of bedrock and doubly so that the forces of gravity on this planet are only ninety-four percent of those of earth." Again he paused for a second or so. "The percentage may be inaccurate…considering I gathered the necessary variables during a fall in which the particulars of science were not all that held my concern."  
Typical Spock. Falling to his imminent doom and he just has to take the time to run equations. The guy was a class A workaholic.

"I was able to salvage scarce little from the wreckage, this geological tricorder being chief among the supplies as well as forty percent of the unsecured medical kit which had been in use at the time of the second plummet.  
"The dermal regenerater, which Captain Kirk had been making use of at the time of the second plummet, was irreparably damaged by way of a collision with the Captain's skull. The other medical probes were either broken as well or lost." So that was the reason for the headache!  
"It is my sincere hope that when the crewmen who we were sent to retrieve are found, they are in good health, as these medical supplies will not be sufficient for treatment of any median sized group's worth of injuries."

He paused. Again. Spock was pausing a lot.

"The Captain or I shall record all relevant proceedings in hopes that, in the event that we do not survive, someone will gain from our experiences here. End of entry."  
Jim was pretty sure Spock was shuffling his feet, but it was always possible he was taking a dirt sample or enacting some sort of Vulcan communion with the planet or something totally not human.  
Nah. He was shuffling his feet.  
Time to say something before the poor bastard started chewing his nails.

"You know, I'd almost forgotten why we came here in the first place."

"Captain!"

Jim heard the first officer drop to one knee, suddenly by his side, so he opened an eye to get a look at him.  
Not bad for someone who'd just fallen from the sky in a screaming metal death trap. Aside from a couple tears in his uniform and a spot of green on a nasty split in his bottom lip, he looked golden. Except that his face was still largely black.

"Yeah, I'm awake."

"Captain…" Spock said, with a barely discernible hint of relief. "You are aware of our current situation?"

"Yeah, I heard," Jim said, with a chuckle chasing the words. He was suddenly much too aware of just how thoroughly beaten he was. He was even able to pinpoint which part of his head had supposedly destroyed the dermal regenerater. It just so happened to be his face.  
Though he knew it was the worst idea he'd had all day, aside from getting out of bed that morning, he gave another chuckle.  
"Ironic...isn't it, Mr. Spock?"

"Captain?"

Before Jim replied, a little grin broke through the blood drying over his mouth, dripping down from one cheekbone. "Ironic that the thing that's… " he sucked in a breath, "supposed to help us preserve our good looks… tried to massacre my face." He was pretty sure Spock was doing the eyebrow thing but it was nigh on impossible to tell through the thick layer of black mercury and navigation's station oil covering the majority of the Vulcan's features.  
Yeah, the lighting was good enough out here that he'd solved the 'mystery of the black faced Vulcan' himself. Good thing too, because it had been driving him crazy.

"Captain, the term 'massacre' is a stronger one than I feel should be applied to the situation. I believe I am familiar with one which would fit." His head tilted as he searched his vast memory stores. "In use on Earth, late 20th through mid 21st centuries. An example:  
It is ironic that the dermal regenerater - considering the unit's function is to ensure the health of all types of skin and tissues - 'jacked up' your face."

Jim had no words for that. No words at all. In fact, no breath to spare on words either. Now that he thought about it; breathing wasn't meant to take that much effort.  
The way Spock's expression changed from 'amused' to 'deeply concerned' in the space of one more breath confirmed his suspicion that something needed some attention put to it.  
Spock reached out and unzipped Jim's dark grey - gold trimmed - tactical suit jacket, a Vulcan frown breaking out as he did.

Hmm, maybe the trouble had to do with that pink froth bubbling up out of his command shirt, right about where his heart was busy beating itself into a frenzy.  
Oh, never mind. His heart was on the other side.

Spock wasn't saying anything, so Jim voiced his concern."I think there's something wrong with… with that lung."

Spock took another second or so, observing, before he nodded. "Captain, you have a sucking chest wound and if I am not mistaken, human physiology requires something be done immediately to prevent…death." Spock's face went a shade grimmer. Jim hoped that was all his did. Though, knowing that Vulcan's were masters of down playing their feelings, he expected his own face better expressed the downright bone chilling effect Spock's analysis had on him.  
After all, no matter how many people might try to give you evidence to indicate the opposite: James T. Kirk did not have a death wish. In fact, he had a "live long and prosper" wish.  
"I must apologize, Captain. In my haste to clear the potential blast zone I failed to do a thorough medical evaluation. Once we were clear I-

"Spock," Jim said, to quiet the Vulcan. "It must not have been noticeable if you, of all people, didn't… notice."

"Captain-"

Again Jim cut him off. "So, Mr. Spock, our transport's… down for the count. Most of the weapons, the med supplies, are... missing or broken. Our provisions are-"

"Captain, I am well aware the details of our plight. I am also aware that the more you dwell on those details the higher your heart rate will climb and, subsequently; the more air you will force through your lungs, increasing the dangers of a collapse and enlarging any existing pneumothorax."

"So, you're saying… I punctured a lung?"

"…It is a possibility, Captain."

The whole exchange took place amid the flurry of motion which had become Spock. Taking off the captain's jacket and shirt - not at all easy tasks at the moment but necessary considering they had no idea how long the undeveloped planet would be their home and therefore, how long until they'd get their hands on another change of clothes - and placing an adhesive strip across the hastily cleaned puncture wound.

"Even that unfortunate possibility might not pose such a problem if you possessed a level of control over your bodily systems that would allow one lung to stay completely still while the other continued to function. Unfortunately, I am aware of only three individuals who have ever demonstrated such ability. All three were Vulcan high priests and one of the three was never able to reinstate the use of his damaged lung. Quoted saying, 'The body is a fickle thing. Once a physiological pathway has been blocked long enough there is no guarantee it will allow itself to be reopened. Repairing a body is not so simple a thing as repairing a temple.' He refers, at the last, to the old Terran adage, 'Your body is your temple.' "He lived, with the use of only one lung, to be 141 years of age. His death was reportedly the tragic outcome of an exploration into fine manipulation of different heart functions, utilizing nothing but ones' long cultivated and intimate understanding of their body's rhythms and functional nuances and of course; a finely disciplined, logical mind."

"Spock, why are you telling me… any…of this stuff?" A valid question. Especially considering Jim was pretty sure his heart rate had climbed through the entire telling of that poor, misguided monk's doubly misguided extra-curricular pursuits.  
Spock blinked. Then explained.

"Frankly Captain, I was 'shooting the breeze' so as to not worry you as I prepared my mind for what is to come."

"What?!" Jim's voice may have cracked a little, but if it did, it wasn't because he was worried Spock was planning to mercy kill him as a logical way to increase his own chances at survival. No, that had nothing to do with it.

Spock didn't seem to notice and went on, as calm as ever. "Vulcan's steady their minds with a moment of silent concentration but I understand that to most humans, seeing such a thing is…unsettling. Therefore, working in close quarters with a ship full of human colleagues, I have grown accustomed to doing such maintenance while also otherwise engaged or else; while off duty." His face, though still a strange shade of black, seemed to convey a note of accomplishment.

"Way to go Spock. I am…curious though, as to… what it was you were… preparing for."

Then he reverted to serious Vulcan mode and delivered the heavy news Jim had been waiting for. "Captain, it is now my turn to perform a surgery for which I am not qualified."  
Jim swallowed, hard as he could and- was that blood he tasted?

"With, uh, with what… Spock? You said all our relevant medical supplies were… kaput!" Jim could feel the apprehension setting it's roots deep. Somewhere in his chest, near that puncture wound that neither he nor Spock had noticed until it was too- no. He wouldn't kid anyone; it had been too late the moment it'd happened. Whenever that was. Or else, the moment the medical probes were lost. The difference was not an important one by that point. Spock- what was Spock talking about then?

"Captain, I have studied - albeit, not extensively - human physiology and historical accounts of medicine through your Terran ages. Though we are, at this time, short what is these days considered to be 'the essentials', we have everything we need and more by your earlier Earth standards." He reached to the side, bringing a small package into Jim's line of sight. "You will not die here… Jim. I will see to that."  
Yeah, that wasn't helping at all. Keep his heart rate down his foot! If this was Spock's attempt at reassuring; well, suffice it to say that Jim was anything but reassured.

"Uh, Spock?"

"Yes, Jim?" The Vulcan was preoccupied then, undoing the package and laying it out.

"Are those _needles_?" The one thing- it had to be needles! Shining innocently up in his face as if they didn't plan on doing him in!

Spock looked up, looked Jim in the eyes and held that gaze for a second or two before speaking. "Jim, my mind is steadied. Now, we must steady yours." That look in Spock's eyes. Obviously Jim was about to receive more information than he wanted to. "The only way that this can be accomplished, to the degree that it must, is through application of a Vulcan technique which, because of it's inception in the ages of extreme antiquity and limited use in recent times, lacks a given name pronounceable by humans."  
Jim didn't really like the sound of that. 'Unpronounceable' generally also meant either 'unsafe', or 'ill-conceived-so-they'd-like-to-save-face-by-keeping-it-a-secret'. 'Unpronounceable' did not inspire ship-loads of confidence.  
"The joining of two consciousnesses with the result being, a calm mind guiding an unsettled mind." Spock paused to find the right words; then, with a minute bob of his head, continued. "The calm mind 'takes control' of the other, allowing for precise manipulation of the injured body by means of a combination of verbal and nonverbal commands. As a hypnotist might." His head quirked at the quaint idea. "Almost as if controlling one's _own_ body, but with the potential for much finer, more exact commands to be implemented."

If this had been anyone besides Spock, Jim would have called them out for a liar. Unfortunately for Jim; Vulcan's can't lie. Or so they say, anyway.

"If our minds were to join in this fashion, yours would 'take a backseat'- if you will - and mine would be the one 'holding the reigns'. You would, essentially, be in a trance and you would not possess the power to refuse any of my suggestions. At least, that is the theory I was made aware of." He gave a tiny Vulcan shrug and went on, as if that wasn't one of the worst things a surgeon could ever hope to say to a patient who's insides they were about to become intimately acquainted with.  
"Without this kind of control, in this uncontrolled environment, to proceed would be tantamount to carrying out an unpleasant death sentence."  
After a moment of thought he made to clarify. "By 'unpleasant', I mean-"

"Yes Spock, I get… the picture," said with a sense of despondency. Then, with a grimace, "Listen, it's getting kinda… hard to breath. Could we maybe, get on with it?"

"Jim," Spock said, as he placed a hand on his captain's shoulder. "You will be the first human in recorded history on which a Vulcan has attempted to apply this technique. Therefore, I cannot guarantee..." He squirmed a bit. Searching for the right words, perhaps?  
"On Vulcan, in years recently passed, this was done only in remote areas where synthesized drugs were a precious or rare commodity. It serves a vital role in calming the patient; allowing the caregiver the stillness and control necessary for any sensitive treatment's successful completion.  
"Trembling, shivering, a racing heart, delirium; all can be suppressed through the application of this technique. But-"

"Have you ever... done this before?" Jim cut him off before the Vulcan could go off on another long, long, unnecessary explanation. Spock shook his head, indicating no. "Ever seen it done?" Another shake of the head. "Alright. But you're confidant it will... will work, right? You can keep me sedated long enough to do... whatever it is you have to do?"

Jim didn't receive an immediate answer. The Vulcan was ruminating, which was generally not a good sign.  
Finally, Spock said, "I must reiterate: You would be the first human in recorded-"

"Spock! I got that... Will it work, though?"

"You must understand; this technique was used on Vulcan's who have undergone training since early childhood, cultivating our inherent mental abilities in such an effective manner that we are expected to be completely in control of ourselves, our bodies and our emotions at all times."

Jim kept a stern face while suppressing a chuckle. Never minding the fact that this Vulcan had gone full blown ape on more than one - well documented - occasion.

"Pain is among the things which we can control, some individuals to more advanced levels than others, but regardless... it is not something that humans are capable of controlling. To any level.  
"I - to use human nomenclature -' fear' that, even completely entranced, you would be subject to your body's pain. Unable to ignore or suppress your nerve's distressed signals and, from beginning to end, fully aware of the motions of the surgical procedure." To the questioning expression his captain couldn't help but share, Spock concluded his explanation. "This technique and indeed the procedure itself, require I have a conscious patient. I cannot guide an unresponsive body. There is no way around that provision."

Jim's brow shot toward his hairline, his pupils shrinking in the suddenly very bright sunlight- and how was that possible through such a turbulent ionic storm? This was sounding more and more like a form of torture than a saving grace! In order to see the next sunrise, he was forced to undergo a tedious, potentially lengthy surgery performed by a novice, using techniques the novice'd only read about, with nothing but Stone Age medical supplies at his disposal! While conscious.  
He really should have stayed in bed that morning.

"Well," Jim said, wetting his lip in a nervous twitch, "what are we waiting for?"

Spock's face was unreadable as he said, "Only your consent, Captain. You also must know that, once we start, there is no chance for reprieve. No possibility for rest. This must be undertaken with the utmost of conviction and neither of us can afford a break in concentration. We must, both of us, know only the steel of resolve. Until this surgery is complete, I can give no thought to your comfort. To do so would only increase our chances of failure." He paused and Jim's breath hitched.  
"I will do what must be done, no matter the pain it will undoubtedly inflict, and without the slightest hesitance."  
Spock paused, searching his captain's stricken face, getting a peak through that superficial layer of fear and catching a glimpse of the courage he'd known was lying beneath; waiting to take fear's place and pull them through. As it did every time.

He then asked the million dollar question with as much compassion as his Vulcan ancestry would allow. "Do you consent?"

"Do I have a choice?" The Vulcan's eyebrow did the thing, visible even through the muck he'd yet to clean off his face. Jim headed him off with a hasty, "Yes Spock! I consent! God, just… do it already."

"Very well, Captain." Jim saw the hand reaching for his face and did not draw away, though he'd seen that same hand before. Back in a cave on a carniverous, frozen planet. That same hand, only wizened with age, in that same shape, had imparted to him unspeakable volumes of knowledge and a sea of writhing emotions all in the space of a few moments. His mind cringed at the thought of that happening a second time, though he was aware that that was not this Spock's intention.  
He tried his darndest to relax.

The fingers touched and like a battery reaching it's dock, a circuit was completed.  
A spark of life definitely not belonging to Jim entered him through those contact points and he realized that Spock had been right to take the time explaining the process. If he hadn't, Jim would have completely freaked out at the sensation of seeing the world through a pair of binoculars instead of his own flesh and blood eyes. Even his hands didn't feel like they were connected to him anymore. Instead, there was some sort of stranger settling in where he usually was, pushing him from his comfy captain's chair and into a corner, as if he was a misbehaving child.  
He could feel Spock make him flex his fingers and almost balked at the tightness of his chest when he was asked to take a deep breath. He could hear Spock telling his body to calm down and, even though Jim knew he'd otherwise be on the verge of hyperventilating, he felt his body comply. Almost sagging into itself in it's eagerness to please the new master.

Damn. Where could he get some of that Vulcan training? If all it took was growing crazy eyebrows and demonic, pointy ears…he'd think about it. If he had to walk the Spock-talk though; that was a deal breaker.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He sat straight, pulling his fingers from his entranced patient's face. There was no room for such a human emotion as doubt. Confidence, on the other hand, was permissible.  
His eyes fell to the salvaged medical supplies and he knew there was nothing for it. These were the only needles, the only supplies at his disposal and likely the only ones available on the entirety of the planet's surface. Sanitary or not, they were Captain Kirk's one chance at living to see another day. That was irrefutable fact.

What had Spock's fingers trembling a tremble only his sharp eyes could perceive, as he threaded one needle of appropriate size and curve, was the knowledge that without any form of anti-biotic, using an unexplored world rife with it's own unique cornucopia of germs as an operating room, the Captain's likelihood of developing an infection was above 55%. That number, compounded by nearly endless other variables brought the chances for his survival to…a deplorably low level.

But, to clarify, Spock's unease had nothing to do with his extreme proximity to his captain's helter-skelter, emotional mind. Nor was it a result of any feelings of friendship he harbored for the man.  
Nope. He simply…did not savor the prospect of having to spend an undetermined amount of time on that strange planet alone, with the knowledge that he had failed his captain hanging over his head.  
In that scenario, by extension, he would have failed the entire crew of the Enterprise as well. Lieutenant Uhura happened to be included in that selfsame crew.  
Failure was not a favorable option. So, he would not fail.

Prepped needle in an ungloved, unsterilized hand, he took one more moment to collect his Vulcan resolve and got busy familiarizing himself with the intricacies of a living and breathing, human thorax. The insides of it, that is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo! You've reached the bottom of the page! Hurray!
> 
> I do have a third chapter in the oven and hope to have it up... tentatively, before... the heat death of the universe sets in. : D Unfortunately, I tend to let life take a toll on writing, editing, and posting in general. At least it's hard to miss the deadline when it's a few million billion years off!  
> I am working on it though. So, fingers crossed! : D
> 
> I also have a oneshot or two in this same universe/series that should be posted any day now. So, if you're interested in that, feel free to pop on over and give 'em a whirl!
> 
> 'Till next time, Anonymous : D
> 
> P.S. I am not a student of human medicine and anything in this story concerning said subject was hobbled together off the knowledge gleaned from things I've read, heard, and seen elsewhere over the years, fact checked to the best of my abilities for this fic!


	3. Poached

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's survival drama at its lesser levels of drama! Centering around whether these two high ranking officers can stand to be in each other's immediate vicinity for an extended enough time... Or be driven mad by the close of day two.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who's been following this series and is coming back for more: Thanks so much for the attention! Without your generosity, I am sure this fic would be starving!  
> Anyone brand new: Thank you for the donation and I hope you've enjoyed the first two chapters of the ride!

"Damn it Mr. Scott, I'm a doctor, not a park ranger! What in the world do you think I could possibly add to this damn machine that would actually help!?"

"Please Dr. McCoy, if you'll just sit down and input the biochemical signature- I don't actually trust the one programmed into it. For all I know, an intern may have plugged it in."

McCoy rebutted, "I happen to know the man who wrote them and he is most certainly **not** anyone's intern!"

"Alright, alright, your friend did it- fine. Fine. But don't come cryin' to me days from now when this ionic mess clears up and we find two bodies instead of executive officers!"  
Mr. Scott was just a wee bit irked by the doctor's uncooperative behavior of the past few days. Yeah, basically _that_ had been going on for _days_. Plural. Sad actually.  
Now though, there was a moment of silence.

McCoy chanced a caustic glance at the machine's input terminal. His semi-permanent scowl deepened as he spoke, "I hope you've been wasting your time in more productive ways."

"Dr. McCoy, I've tried explaining the intricacies of locating an away team, keeping a constant safe distance from the planet whilst basically piloting the whole damn ship myself! You cannae sustain an orbit and stay exactly above the last spot someone the size of a germ was spotted without a very gentle touch. Autopilot just doesn't cut it!"

" _Alright_ , Mr. Scott! By your standards I'll bet the medbay staff doesn't cut it!"  
Scotty held his breath, hoping the doctor wasn't about to flee. This was the closest to help he'd gotten out of the troubled man since the search and rescue team was... lost.

McCoy shook his head, one hand attempting to smooth out the ever deeper worry lines running the width of his forehead. "I take it you've already bent M'Benga's ear?"

"Yes- yes I have, and he was very helpful, but-" he touched his nose in a nervous twitch. "Although he's spent time in the field - if you will - with the Vulcans in the... Vulcan baby hospitals or whatever," Mr. Scott shifted his feet, McCoy's fiery stare just a wee bit disconcerting. "You know what I mean!" The doc nodded, expression unchanged.  
"Well, good. Uh, so- M'Benga is a great doctor - don't get me wrong -, but... you've," the engineer's face scrunched, "you've... worked with Mr. Spock longer! Oh god- is it hot in here?"

"Mr. Scott, the temperature is constant on this ship."

"Right. Righteo. So, M'Benga came down and recoded the scanner's outdated Vulcan bio signature search parameters but-"

"But our damned first officer's only _half_ Vulcan."

Scotty gave a pained nod, hands tucked under opposite arms, looking almost as if he was giving himself a hug. "That is the problem _exactly_. You don't know how hard I've been working- I've pushed my team through two sleepless nights and we've still made no _progress_ ," the last word growled like a curse as he brought a thumbnail up to his overworked teeth. They needed a chew toy. "No progress at all."  
His eyes refocused on the doctor. "We cannae scan through this blasted ionic disturbance _yet_ , but I'll be damned before I give up an' leave Spock- _Mr_. Spock and Captain Kirk out there to die!"

Poor Mr. Scott. The head of an entire Federation star ship engineering department and he still had to do all the busy work himself.

McCoy's face finally broke. Not, though, the way Scotty expected it to.

McCoy's stringent scowl softened until the only ripples left were the wrinkles around his eyes. Then came the lopsided grin. "You mean: you'll be damned before you give up and leave Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk out there to _kill each other_. Because that's what would happen!"

The doctor had clearly gone mad with the stress. Scotty'd go so far as to say the man was showing signs of space madness; giggling and tearing at the eyes. It was really hard to catch early signs in yourself, even for a trained medical professional. Or so Scotty had heard.  
Once.  
In a bar back in Glasgow.  
From a drunken Tellarite- on second thought; never mind.

"Mr. Scott, as chief medical officer aboard this ship, I prescribe a mandatory sleep cycle for you and your entire team." He raised a hand, cutting off any protests. "If I get word that any _one_ of you crazy, self destructive bastards leaves your quarters before seven hours are up I will personally give the order to drug every last one of you."

Scotty took in a confused breath. "Wha-"

"Now shut up, man! Can't you see I'm in the middle of something important?!" With an ample huff, Dr. McCoy plopped himself into the provided chair and regarded the manual input PADD with a thick smothering of disdain. Then he grumbled, more to himself than the head of engineering, "Gotta find ourselves a crazy half Vulcan and his flesh colored punching bag."

"Doctor, I cannae stress how much this might end up expediting the search and let me-"

" _Remember_ , Mr. Scott. Seven hours. Your **entire** team. I'm not joking about the drugs."

"Um, alright then. I'll leave you to it then... " He ducked a bit closer to McCoy, the doctor now taking out his frustrations on the projected keyboard instead of him. " _All_ of them?"

Without breaking eye contact with the demon spawn of a machine into which he was busy downloading all of Spock's most personal information, he remarked, "You have ten minutes before the drugs come out, Mr. Scott."

"Ok," Scotty appeased, backing at warp speeds. "I'll uh- I'll be seeing you later... then. Good bye!" And all that remained of the head of engineering was a faint skid mark and the distant sound of frantic warnings.

McCoy cackled quietly. In his own mind. Cursing the while at the infernal machine to which he was handing over hard, _hard_ won information. Information he was pretty sure the first officer would rather stayed confidential.  
Vulcan's were infamous in there love of privacy and also for there ability to reap there revenge with a face completely devoid of unpleasant, gritty 'emotions'.

McCoy didn't want an angry half-Vulcan on his case but, on the other hand, he _really_ didn't want a newly dead pair of pains in the asses. They were annoying enough _alive_.

 

~

 

Meanwhile, down on the surface of the planet, underneath the nigh on impenetrable pal of an upper atmospheric ionic storm, Jim Kirk and Mr. Spock had established a crude sort of dwelling with all the amenities of home. Though _whose_ home, is anybody's guess… considering Starfleet wasn't in contact with many bipedal species who still called caves "home".  
The one they found themselves in was halfway up a relatively steep hill. So...not prime real estate by most standards.

 

"Spock, are you _sure_ this is the only thing we can eat?" The proud, captainly head of the starship Enterprise scrunched his nose and almost dumped the bowl out on the floor. The face his first officer displayed, looking like he'd failed his captain in an unforgivable kind of way, the only thing staying his tantrum.  
"Reminds me of oatmeal," he added quietly, sneaking a peak to make sure the Vulcan no longer resembled a particularly pointy eared variety of kicked puppy.  
He neglected to mention that oatmeal was among his least favorite wet foods known to man. Figured that wouldn't win him any field trip points.

"I assure you, Captain, that your meal is replete with nutrients guaranteed to keep a human in good health. In the short term. In the long term it will be necessary to widen your dietary intake to include cruciferous greens and citrus fruits, if at all possible."

"Mhm. Does the geo tricorder tell you whether this stuff you're feeding us will end up killing us? Or are you going off gut feeling on this one?"

Spock looked up sharply. "Gut feeling, Captain?"

"Yeah, when you get a feeling about a thing or... or situation as opposed to-," he paused to look at the Vulcan. "You've been _living_ in a ship full of humans for years and you don't recognize the term 'gut feeling'?" Jim's brow quirked in curiosity.

"I simply had never heard it applied to such a situation. Captain." Jim watched as the chief science officer of the Starship Enterprise did his Vulcan best to not give off a very embarrassed green glow as he went back to fiddling with a stubbornly out of order, tiny medical tricorder. He wasn't too flustered to continue his explanation though.  
"To answer your query; The geological tricorder analyzes the exact chemical composition of organic material and flora. From this raw data I am able to extrapolate the dietary density and values of the seemingly edible ground cover and therefore asses whether it is fit for human - or Vulcan - consumption.  
"As to whether these things will kill us, you and I are prime examples of their influence."

The captain took a moment to poke at his slop before responding. "So.... which of us was the guinea pig?" He made sure to catch Spock's reaction.  
Brows above the brow ridge with an _almost_ worried twist of the mouth.

"Captain?"

"Heh, it's a figure of speech, Spock. Just- never mind, alright? And," He tacked on, for the hell of it,"remind me never to let you perform surgery again. Your bedside manner is worse than Bones'."

"Captain, I would be relieved if the need never again arises."

Jim shook his head. "No," he pointed half-heartedly at his first officer and continued, "that's where you're supposed to say, 'You're welcome'." Then he shrugged, careful of his stitches. "Well, that's what Bones would say anyway."

The Vulcan hooked an eyebrow. "Why would I express tidings of welcome if I have not been thanked?" His features smoothed, then again grew quizzical as he took a moment to ponder the frailties of the human modes of expression. "You said I should never again perform surgery... Was I to take that as a form of 'thanks'?" 

Jim's brow rose and fell as he sighed. "I guess not."

"Then I do not understand."

"That's ok, Spock. It was a joke- just, forget about it.  
"On a completely separate note: Thanks for not leaving me behind." The captain took a second to pick at some irregularity in the weft of his mattress' cover. "I know the logical thing would have been to cut your losses and reserve the supplies; leave the dying guy behind but..."

"Captain, I assure you that the scenario you have just described is not at all logical. A first officer's main concern is the well being of their ship. What is a ship without its captain?" Jim looked over as Spock fiddled with the small device he was still holding. "Additionally, it would be irresponsible to leave anyone behind while there existed the possibility that they could be saved. It would be against the teachings of Surak and any morals that a Starfleet officer has sworn to uphold."

"Oh. Well, thanks anyway."

"No thanks are necessary, Captain, as I am sure that you would have done no less for any member of your crew had you found yourself in my position."

"Whatever," Jim huffed, as he laid back down. Spock was too busy being Spock to offer any kind of meaningful conversation, so he might as well get some more rest while the resting was good. Anyway, one more round with the preoccupied Vulcan was definitely going to bring his headache back full force. Jim wasn't looking forward to full force. So he took a nap instead.

 

Upon waking he was treated once again to the acrid scent of his new least favorite 'food'. The most unfortunate thing about the gruel like meal being the **fact** that it tasted the way it smelled and worse, half the time. Like drinking your own vomit out of an especially clean toilet.

"Captain, this _is_ , regrettably, the only edible vegetation to be found in all the ground we have covered since our marooning. Further, it is rich in many of the minerals and enzymes necessary for sustaining humans and similar lifeforms." Spock offered. Assuring, or attempting to anyway, his patient of its intrinsic merits for the dozenth time in two days. Kind of creepy considering the guy was eating this stuff ten out of twelve times he'd given that lecture. With varying amounts and depths of detail. None of which made Jim one iota happier about having to eat it.

"Does it have a name or should I just call it 'shit'? Because this is, without a _doubt_ , the worst stuff I have ever had the misfortune of subsisting off." At the raised eyebrow Spock sent his way he supplied, "You don't have to remind me of the spread at that one gaseous planet banquet we were required to show up and 'diplomat'. That stuff, I swear to god, **had** to be, literally, _something's_ two day old feces. They even roasted the stuff. Gah!"

"Do I take it then, Captain," said Spock, a glimmer of what might have equated to the human emotion of hope in his eyes, "that this then, is somewhat more palatable?" The Vulcan's seeming earnest curiosity did nothing to quell Jim's misery. Nor his annoyance at his well meaning first officer. After all, the guy was trying to kill him with sensory repulsion. Who does that?

"I'm eating it. 'Nough said." Spock's glimmer burned out. Jim was a little less disgusted with the food for the next several minutes.

"Hey, Spock?" Jim asked, not looking up from the last dregs of gruel he was attempting to coax out of the crude bowl and into his revulsed mouth.  
The stinking stuff had one thing going for it: Choke down enough of it and you wouldn't feel like you'd starve by nightfall.

"Yes, Captain?" Spock did look up.

"You _can_ call me 'Jim'. Considering we might be stuck here a while." Spock looked about as worried over the prospect as he would were he just given the amiable invitation to 'jump off a cliff'. "Or not." Mumbling he tacked on an, "I should know better by now."  
Then, remembering he'd meant to ask something, he looked up from his bowl.  
"I've been wondering; you said we can't make any fire, right?" He received a nod. "Because the native fauna sniff out heat sources and attempt to eat any living thing that just so happens to be near it?" Another nod. "Alright. Then, how are you making this stuff?" He waved his empty bowl for unnecessary emphasis. "It's warm and goopy and I really, _reeally_ hope it doesn't look like this when you find it." He tossed the bowl a few feet away, confident the sturdy thing wouldn't break. "And if it does, you are fired." He got an eyebrow raised in heavy doubt for his troubles. "Vulcans," he replied. Choosing to lay back, stare at the 'ceiling', and abandon the entire conversation. Knowing it would do him and his wants not one drop of good to continue. 

Besides; Spock wasn't wrong when he mentioned the slop was keeping him alive. He could almost _feel_ the stuff speeding up the reproduction of his recently lost red blood cells, which, no matter how weird that sounded, was almost comforting.

"I do what I must. As is the only logical solution to a situation such as that in which we currently find ourselves embroiled." Jim strained to hear, as Spock was speaking as if to himself.  
Likely the Vulcan was experiencing his equivalent of 'peeved' at his captain's outward rejection of his valiant 'keep everyone alive' efforts. 

Kirk, looking forward to a good fifteen minutes worth of attempting to wash the slop's repugnant taste out of his mouth with nothing but saliva, was content to leave everything the way it was. Spock's nonexistent feelings be damned!

 

By morning next, Jim was feeling the gentlest pangs of regret.  
Over many different things, happenings, and circumstances. Such as; electing both the captain _and_ the chief science officer slash **first officer** of the Enterprise to _both_ fly down to the surface of an undeveloped, alien planet in a tiny shuttle through the middle of a violent ionic storm. At **the same time**.  
Poor life choice really. 

The freshest of such pangs though, was all Spock's fault. He was the one, after all, who'd woken early, stretched, creepily walked across the cave to adjust his captain's blanket whilst the man _appeared_ to still be deep in sleep, and left without a word.  
The tireless first officer was out there risking life, limb, and a sunburn to bring back enough… food… to keep them going until, a( the ion storm broke up and help came, or b( their eventual, though predictable, demise.

The factors keeping his guilt in check included:  
The fact that his chest hadn't actually stopped hurting since he'd realized that sometime during the crash, he'd been perforated.  
The fact that he was tired and cold and hungry in the morning because they were rooming in a damn _cave_.  
Slop.  
'Nough said.

Still… "No! Stand firm, Jim. He's not worth- he doesn't even have feelings, for crying out loud! Why am I… Why am I talking to myself?" Committing himself to a painful shrug, he lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Kept company by the horrible, horrible knowledge that, in the end, this was all his own fault and that, eventually, he was going to have to inform the families of the two unlucky souls he'd dragged down into this. 

He'd been the one to assign them to the mission and, in so doing, had unwittingly signed their death warrants.

Several early morning minutes wasted trying not to picture the two ensigns' mangled bodies as they'd fallen to 'earth' and Jim decided he'd rather put himself through some _physical_ torture. Switch things up.

Standing took a while. Well, _getting_ himself _to_ a stand took a while. What with all the pain and the cursing breaking up his concentration and all.

Staggering his abused shell of a body to the cave entrance also took a while. Felt like it did, anyway.  
Because he was impatient. Not because it was especially large.  
Because it wasn't.

Sunlight assaulted his senses, so it took him a minute to locate the little Vulcan shaped figure some two hundred feet down the slope, wandering zig-zag patterns in a generally 'back to the cave' direction.  
As Spock drew closer, Jim noticed the reason for his slow assent; the fellow was pausing every several feet to pick something off a specific variety of sparse growing, weedy looking, waist high… plant. Every picked piece was then evaluated, seemingly liberated from some sort of pod, and popped in his mouth.  
The damn Vulcan was eating. Great.

"Well, who am I to judge? When a..." man wasn't _quite_ the right word, "an officer's hungry, they're hungry." He turned away from the cave opening and felt along the surprisingly smooth wall back to his bed. Muttering the while. "I don't know why he'd lie about there being other food sources though. Then again, maybe he didn't? Yeah, he _would_ leave out that he'd found a plant that was only safe for Vulcan consumption. So as, 'Not to upset the captain in his frail, hungry state'. He probably made the right decision though," he grunted as he lowered himself to the almost soft pad he'd been charitably gifted by the same… officer on whom he'd just been _not_ spying. 

Feeling both grateful and full of angst, he laid his head back for a nice, relaxing, nap. Knowing full well he was too aware of his injuries and far too awake to achieve sleep. "A man can dream," he informed the relative darkness of the cave.

 

As the soft fingers of slumber finally began pulling on the edges of his psyche, so did the sharp crunch of approaching boot steps.  
Spock was almost back.  
Jim wondered whether he'd managed to get his grubby, two timing hands on any breakfast since he'd stopped watching him. 'Cause it sure hadn't looked like he'd had anything on him at the ti-

Why was he stopping? And sitting down, by the sound of it?  
Hm. Maybe he was photosynthesizing? Could Vulcans _do_ that? No. That was a plant only thing. Right?  
Next most likely thing; Spock was tired and taking a break, or meditating. Which amounted to about the same thing, way he'd heard it explained, when it came to the native people of that ultimately unfortunate desert planet.  
He needed to stop thinking about depressing things.

Oh, geez. Now it sounded like Spock was hyperventilating.

Jim's heart rate spiked as he realized just how utterly dependent he was in his current, injured state.  
If his first officer was in need of medical assistance, he wouldn't be able to reach him in time. Or, if he did, he didn't know near as much about Vulcan physiology as Spock did about the human variety.  
Plus, the thought of trying to even _crawl_ out there made his muscles tremble, having already pushed them hard earlier.  
What kind of help could he possibly offer-

Huh. Now it sounded like the strait-laced officer was...  
The captain of the Starship Enterprise relaxed back into his 'bed', nerves shot but falling back to normal.  
Spock was just emptying his stomach. Vomiting. Upchucking.  
Served him right for eating secret 'Vulcan only' food while his patient was 'sleeping'. 

Oh shit! He was coming back in the cave!  
Jim closed his eyes and pretended to still be fast asleep. Thinking the while that that was a pretty quick recovery for someone who sounded like they'd emptied their **entire** stomach.  
Damn alien fortitude. Why couldn't humans be that resilient?!

Feigning sleep, _without_ the blanket Spock'd adjusted on him before heading out, Jim craned his ears for clues as to what his first officer was up to.

"Captain?" Asked while paused just inside the cave opening.  
Receiving no response, Spock padded with care through the space, right up to his superior's side.  
Then Jim heard a noise which he didn't have it in himself to ignore: a bowl being set down. Right where he'd woken to find one several times over the past few days.  
Uh-oh.

Eyes springing open, Jim sought with desperation for the bowl and the Vulcan, praying that what he now knew, just wasn't true.

"Captain, you are awake earlier tha-"

"Spock, what's in that bowl?" He asked. A cold desperation coloring his voice.

Spock straightened to a stand before answering. "The food which you have termed 'slop', or 'shi-"

"Don't play coy with me, Spock. I _heard_ you outside just now," he said. Eyes accusing. "What is this stuff made of, _exactly_?"

The science officer with the ever ready answers appeared rather stunned by the turn of events. Voice closer to unsure than was comforting, he began. "Captain, it is 'exactly' what I have said from the first time you asked. The only edible ground co-"

"Okay, Spock. Then tell me how it's made, and no sidestepping this time."

"... Very well," said while walking to a rock he'd come to utilize as a perch. Spock sat, set down a second bowl by his feet, and turned his attention to the guy who was trying really hard to not freak out until absolutely necessary.  
"The grain off which we have been subsisting is on the cusp of edibility. Dr. McCoy took every available moment during the medical course through which all bridge staff were put, to stress to me the reality that your system is as reactionary as a nuclear generator. ' _Anything_ alien could be his doom,' were some of his... less intense warnings." Spock looked a little distracted for a moment, before refocusing on the reason for his explanation.  
"You are correct, Captain. In order to remove the probability of an allergic reaction, I had no other recourse but to circumvent the plant's ability to attack your system, by beginning the digestion process myself. Confirming that-"

"Digestion? _Really_? This... 'slop' is your **vomit**! There's no justifying that! Next thing, you're gonna tell me we've been _drinking_ your piss!" His eyes widened, "Oh, no. No! Spock-"

"Captain!" Jim's stomach paused its roiling, poised and ready, just waiting for confirmation before moving on to the heaving stage. "You are laying next to the condensation purification system, from which you have been drinking ever since you regained consciousness." Spock had brought it back to the cave along with the two thin mattresses and a few gadgets and gizmos, most of which he'd found broken, on his first and only expedition to the original Starfleet science teams' abandoned camp. "Captain-"

"Don't call me that. Not right now." The Vulcan looked almost startled by what he must have taken as more of an order than a plea. Coming from a superior officer as it had.  
Jim, unperturbed went on, "What else have you been doing, without my knowledge, in the name of 'keeping me alive'?" He took a vague satisfaction in the way the Vulcan almost squirmed at the pointed question. Then, he remembered how much it took to make the staunch scientist uncomfortable and started praying that he wouldn't have to kill either of them out of pure mortification.

"Ca- Jim," and however the Vulcan had been planning on mollifying his distraught, bedridden patient, the starship captain would never know. As everything was cut off by a familiar white twinkle.  
And, for Jim anyway, an unfamiliar splinching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there exist folks who have been waiting, patiently, this entire time to find out what happened next.  
> To them: I apologize.  
> Also: You're welcome! ;D  
> Thanks a ton for reading and just so's everyone knows... there is a chapter four well underway!
> 
> Sincerely, Anonymous!


	4. Sunny Side Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyone wanna know what happened to our intrepid commanding officers? How 'bout finding out what Scotty and McCoy are doing? If so, please enjoy!

Bare moments earlier, in the transport deck nearest medbay, the head of engineering and the Enterprise's chief medical officer were also having themselves quite a time.

 

"No, Dr. McCoy. I cannae _guarantee_ that this will return them 'safe and sound'. For multiple reasons- but I _can_ tell you that this is the best chance we are going to get at returning them to this ship in... who knows how long." The harried engineer took two steps closer to the certified physician he was attempting to reassure.  
"This blasted ionic storm is showing no signs of lettin' up and this window of fourteen percent drop in interference Mx Keenser picked up on _radar_ , of all things, may vanish at any time." He put a hand on a crabby Doctor's shoulder.  
"Will you allow the extraction, Doctor? We are locked on and standing by."

McCoy, quite unused to being _asked_ to allow reckless, potentially life ending things to happen in his presence, nor to that low, serious tone coming out of the Scott's head, simply nodded. A viscera deep sigh preceding his turn toward the beaming pad.  
"Commence beam up at will, Mr. Scott."

"Aye aye, Sir."

The doctor, the engineer, and an entourage of their most vital staff, held a collective breath. Chests tightening with every second the transporter whirred and blinked in obvious strain against a natural force it hadn't been built to combat.

"C'mon you annoying bast- The two of you better make it up here alive. Or so help me..." 

No one gave the doctor any weird looks; in that moment, he had every right to threaten people who weren't there. 

Tension in the room spiked as a light appeared on one of the transporter pad receivers. "Only one?" Could be heard from somewhere in the close group. Right before a second, brighter light came to life, only a handful of feet from the first.

The first light flickered. Scotty's hands danced across his input terminal. It stabilized.  
The second dimmed to the level of it's twin and stayed constant.  
The whirring grew in volume and the shrill edge began rubbing at the room's collective psyche. A few covered their ears.

Ghosts, the exact images of their highest ranking officers began to shimmer before them. Hard to make out, but unmistakable all the same. Even in their protective, grey away uniforms.

The captain recumbent, the first officer sitting, reverted to whiteness, then, in response to Scotty's growled, "Oh, no ya don't!", came back more solid than before.

The cacophony that marked the transporter's Herculean efforts cut off, and the sudden quiet rang with an unexpected finality.  
Then, the two frozen figures on the pad moved. Mr. Spock to fall on his rump, and Captain Kirk to clutch at his shoulder. Both letting out roughly a half dozen coughs as their systems attempted readjusting to starship atmosphere.

McCoy was the first to bridge the distance and first to get a good look at the rescued away team. Or what was left of it.  
The two ensigns that'd gone down with them... nowhere to be seen.

But they weren't his concern. Not in that moment. Not when there were patients clearly requiring attention right in front of him.  
He raised a hand and motioned for his triage team to join him on the pad, then crouched by his captain's side.

"Jim? Jim, do you know where you are?" When a lackluster cough was the only answer, McCoy's second waved over a stretcher.  
"Jim, you're aboard the Enterprise. Spock's here too," he assured. Flicking a look behind his shoulder to confirm that he'd indeed told the truth.  
Spock nodded at him from his rather undignified sprawl on the pad. Two triage medics checking his vitals while attempting to not overcrowd the discombobulated Vulcan. 

"M'Benga?" Asked while peering at one of said medical-tricorder wielders.  
Yeah. That beam up must have been one hell of a doozy, because Spock _never_ dropped out professional titles unless begged to.  
Plus: M'Benga was standing by a medbay birthing he'd prepped himself. Just in case the first officer required emergency surgery.  
And, M'Benga didn't wear a dress.

"You'll see him soon enough, Spock. Meantime, tell me what this blood is doing on the captain?" He asked, both to help assess the Vulcan's alertness and in hopes of a first hand accounting of any known traumas.

"The captain was injured during our crash. The landing destroying the transport and leaving only the two of us... alive." Spock squinted at the closer of his attendants, then shook his head. " _Not_ M'Benga."  
McCoy hid a cringe. 

"Yeah, Spock. _Dr._ M'Benga and Nurse Chapel are waiting in medbay. They've reserved a biobed with your name on it," he said. A bit of forced levity coloring the words as he ran a tricorder over _his_ dazed patient. 

"The captain suffered a punctured lung. For him to survive, it was necessary I take immediate action." Spock's eyebrows drew down and he seemed to search the transporter platform for something. "McCoy?"

"I'm right here, Spock."

"Ah. So you are," said with a sluggish blink. 

"Somebody give that Vulcan an oxygen boost?!"

"Wh- How did you know his oxygen levels are low?" Queried a medic _already_ in the process of prepping a hypospray with something to correct the discrepancy.

"He's acting drunk."

"Vulcans do not drink, Bones Doctor."

"Case in point. The guy's loopy," said while administering the same in an appropriate dose for the injured captain.  
"Now, Spock. Don't tell me you performed surgery on our captain after crashing on an alien planet and barely walking away alive yourself." Bones reached out and pulled the hand away from Jim's shoulder to find a small hole in his survival jacket had been patched up. Darned, to be exact.  
He motioned for it to be removed and turned his attention to Spock while that was seen to. Knowing full well that because his medics were trained rather specifically to work on _humans_ , they'd be having a tough time parsing the readouts on their instruments.

The faraway look on the still seated science officer's face was not comforting. "Spock?" Dark brown eyes found his and one pointy eyebrow quirked before any response was given.

"You asked me not to tell you," was all the explanation offered.

"Okay," said McCoy. A complimentary eye roll going unappreciated by his green blooded friend. "Now I'm asking you _to_ tell me."

"As you wish, Leonard." McCoy crouched to run a tricorder over the unkempt Vulcan head, hoping the hypo's effects set in sooner than later.  
Spock was starting to freak him out. Just a hair.  
"You will find that Jim, _you're_ captain, has several stitches-"

"What's this about ' _your_ captain'?" Asked a chief medical officer who _really_ didn't like the sound of tha-

"I told him not to call me that," came a voice that had everyone pause whatever it was they were doing to look in its direction. 

"Jim?" 

"Jim?" Came the twin questions.

"Your oxygen levels are improving. You should be thinking 'clearly' again within seconds," rushed a McCoy who wasn't wasting any time before standing, pleased that his team was indeed in top form and that he therefore needed to walk to the stretcher to get a good look at their captain.

Once he did, he kept his feeling of appall to himself.  
The captain had clearly left a little something behind. Regrettable, but understandable. Having beamed through an ionic storm of such magnitude on nothing but an engineer's hope and prayer.  
McCoy started with a close visual inspection of where the unfortunate captain was currently bleeding out of a nice, no longer stitched slit in his upper thoracic region.  
His breathing was alright though, and getting better as the oxygen booster took effect, so the lung itself must have been holding up alright.

He ran his medical-tricorder over the quadrant and had to double take. "You stitched up his Goddamn _lung_?! What kind of-"

"Vulcan 'hoodoo', Doctor."

One good double take deserved another. "Well, _you're_ never performing surgery again. Not so long as I'm around, anyway."

"You're welcome, Doctor," said a Spock now standing at the foot of the transporter pad. Close enough to touch the head medic.

"The hell you talkin' 'bout, boy?" McCoy's accent deepening in his obvious vexation.

Spock's head canted to one side. "I am physically older than you, Dr-"

"Hush up, yo-"

"I was also informed that that was the expected response to-"

"Bones!" The doctor made a sharp turn _away_ from the elf eared butcher he called a friend, and leaned forward so his other patient wouldn't strain himself.

"Yeah, Jim?"

"He spoon fed me his own vomit," said while pointing square at the recovering first officer's chest. "Lied. Said it was a plant."

"It was indeed a plant, Captain. The-"

"Don't _call_ me that!"

"-only one we came across which had the potential to sustain human or-"

"Alright, Spock," a disgruntled and just a tad appalled Bones cut in. "We don't need the botany lesson right now. In fact, I don't want to hear another peep out of either of you until I've had each of you on a biobed for at least ten minutes- no, make that _thirty_."

Jim lifted his head off the stretcher, lips curling into a goofy grin. "Peep."

McCoy sighed. "I give up." 

Spock, wisely, did not inquire as to the significance, in that specific context, of the terran onomonapia for a young foul's cry.  
McCoy wouldn't have humored the Vulcan.

 

The Scottish engineer still standing in the corner behind the controls, forgotten the moment the two targets had fully materialized, watched as the captain was wheeled out the door towards medbay for a bit of retouch surgery; the one who'd done the original patch job allowed to walk. Then, as the last of the med team rushed out the automatic doors, he wiped his nose on the gold ring around his sleeve cuff.

"Aye. I love a happy ending," he said to a room suddenly **devoid** of medical blues. The echo of an impressive hiccough the only response his remaining, red clad staff offered.  
He scrubbed a hand across his damp, overly happy eyes and cleared his throat. "Alright, now. Time to rescue us a marooned scientific base camp." His face went somber as he remembered something that their recently returned first officer had said. "And... to retrieve the remainder of the rescue team."

"Aye aye, Sir," resounded the room, setting to prepping the transporter to do what it had just done all over again.

 

~

 

"So you seriously big spooned me _every_ night? And we shared blankets?!" Asked an incredulous, happy to be allowed visitors post minor operation, James T. Kirk.

"We shared body heat, Jim. It was the only way to keep your system at an acceptable temperature throughout-"

"I understand the body heat part of all this," Dr. McCoy cut in. "But spoon feeding him your own vomit, Spock? Where was the sense in _that_?"

Spock closed his eyes for a second and shifted his weight further to one side before answering. "In your words, Doctor, 'Our damn captain is allergic to too many substances to feasibly keep track of. God knows to what _more_ out in this unforgiv-"

"Alright," said a doctor who didn't much appreciate being 'imitated' by someone who couldn't even get the inflection right. "So how did mamma bird style feedings make alien plants _safer_?" He asked, giving the blond on the biobed a funny look.

"Okay, _that's_ disgusting," Jim said, pointing a finger at his attending physician. Then the two of them turned polite heads toward Spock. Genuinely, morbidly, curious.

"I consumed and digested on a timer; regurgitating and checking with the geological tricorder every several minutes until what came up was read as harmless for-"

"Oh, God, Spock! Too much **graphic** information. You're gonna make _me_ hurl next."

"Ah, ah! No you don't! I'm not cleaning up any **twice** hurled meal! Not in _my_ -"

"Seriously, Bones? That's not helping."

"Yeah? Suck it up, ya big baby," McCoy grouched, turning jaundiced eyes on the Vulcan in the room. "And _you_ need to get back to your biobed! M'Benga and I agreed you need to stay off that ankle. You _want_ me to stick it in a cast?"

"I assure you, Doctor, that that will not be necessary. It is merely a sprain and will heal on it-"

"Don't give me any of that 'prevaricating' shit. I can tell it hurts, so go lay down and let the medstaff do their jobs."

"Yeah, Spock. Mission complete. At ease."

The science officer's head canted, eyes displaying some hesitance. Then, perhaps taking the words as an order, the sharp lines of his body snapped to and with a quick salute and a crisp, "Captain. Doctor," he was gone. 

"So," Jim started as soon as he was eighty percent sure he wouldn't be overheard, "his ankle's hurt?"

"'Merely a sprain' my ass," McCoy ground out. Eyes still trained in the direction Spock had left.  
He looked back at the guy on the biobed and sighed. "Yeah, thing got torqued pretty bad. Nearly crushed. He's only able to walk on it because of his creepy Vulcan 'mind partitioning' hoodoo," he said. Hands making 'creepy' gestures in the air around his head.

"Wait. You mean when our transport went down, the first time, and that floor mounted unit pinned him... he got- he was being crushed?"

McCoy pinched the bridge of his nose before saying, "Jim, that tends to happen when something that heavy lands on you." He moved his hand away to give his captain another funny look. "If he was anyone else on this ship, that foot would'a popped clean off. Lucky basta-"

"Have Ensign Jordan and Ensign Rogue's families been notified yet?" Jim blurted. Freshly reminded of the manner in which the unfortunate souls had been lost.

"Yeah. Well, someone's been dispatched _to_ notify. They'll have the news anytime."

"... I wanted to tell them."

"No you didn't. You wanted to bring those kids back from the dead." Jim's eyes widened at the sharp delivery. McCoy shook his head and went on,"You think it's your fault they died. Well, news flash: The universe _doesn't_ revolve around you." He ended with a look that, in 'Bones' anyway, read 'I understand the feeling'.

Jim took a moment. Then, slapping on one of his nonchalant faces, he ribbed, "Wow. Spock's bedside manner _is_ better than yours. I'll have to apologize to-"

"That hobgoblin nearly _killed_ you with that- that-"

"Careful, Bones. I can literally _see_ your blood pressure rising."

"He had you dead to rights! What with all the Vulcan mind tricks and the- the... _needles_ and- and the **thread**! Mind you the stitches were pretty even- but there was no sterile field!" He turned distraught eyes on Jim. "How're you even still alive?!"

"....Thanks Bones."

"You sonofa-"

" **Guess** I'm just too tough to kill."

"Uh-huh. We'll see about _that_ ," rejoined the doctor. The two of them sharing in a smatter of chuckles teetering on the edge of manic before things took an easy slide into a natural quiet moment.

"Hey, Bones?" Jim restarted, a majority of his joviality fallen to the wayside. 

"Yeah?" Bones prompted when his most 'fun' patient didn't go ahead and speak. 

"I... I treated- You think Spock's really okay?" Face sobered, McCoy went with a serious answer.

"He's three times as sturdy as you, Jim. You survived; he's fine. Like the Vulcan said, 'It's just a sprain'."

"That's not what you said earlier," Jim pointed out.

"I had to say _something_. He needs to keep off it!"

"Uh-huh. Most of what you said was after he left, Bones," said the captain, finding another hole in McCoy's reasoning.

" _Who's_ the doctor here? 'Sides, this isn't about me," he snapped in the face of a confused Kirk. A Kirk who couldn't quite meet his eyes as he smoothed out some imaginary wrinkles in his biobed blanket.

"I just feel kinda... guilty? Like, he didn't deserve..."

"You could try _not_ being an ass when he's around?" Offered the doctor. Just a tad confused about the subject matter..

"I've never had a friend I was supposed to be _nice_ to. Feels wrong. Like the universe is trying to shift off axis."

"Okay, first off, that sounds _terrifying_. Never say that again." Jim couldn't help a chuckle at that. "And second, quit being a baby." McCoy paused, giving his lip a quick chew before asking, "You thank him yet?"

"What?"

"You thank him for..." Bones made a 'you know; for all that' motion with his off hand. "For _not_ letting you get yourself killed?"

"Tried once. He said, and I quote, 'No thanks are necessary.' Went on a bit about Surak and Starfleet- you get the point," Jim said, an unhappy purse to his lips.

"And you let that stop you? No," McCoy said, a disbelieving lilt to his voice. "James T. Kirk doesn't let _anything_ stop him. Not even logic itself."

"Shut up, Bones. That's an-"

"Ooh, an order? My turf, my rules. You can't tell me what to do. Not while laying in that bed, where you will be staying until your observation period is ove-"

"Sometimes, I really hate you, Bone-"

"Don't hate the player," said the physician, raising his hands in appeasement. "On second thought, maybe hate the Vulcan. He almost-"

"Stop. Most of the medical supplies were destroyed when we crashed. He had no other option, aside from watching me die. Or leaving me behind. Which, apparently, would be against the teachings of some really _really_ dead guy."

"Lemme guess: Now you want _me_ to apologize to him? He's sleeping! Can't hear a thing! What's the real issue here, Jim?" Asked a McCoy who was getting kind of peeved by all this weirdness.

"....He saved my life, tried like _hell_ to save Ensign Rogue's; turns out he was **injured** the whole time, and I treated him like shit." Said like someone finally coming to the realization that _they_ were the school bully.

"Ah, he's used to that. _Everyone_ does. 'Cept M'Benga and Chapel, but they're kinda weird." At the stricken look his captain gave him, McCoy loosed a tiny smile.  
"That was a joke. In fact, most might argue that _he_ treats everyone else like sh-"

"That's just him trying to keep his culture alive, Bones."

"Yeah? You wanna tell the entire ship that?" Jim scoffed at his friend's ridiculous jab.

"I was just thinking, as his closest friends in the galaxy... maybe we should... be more appreciative? Or something?"

Bones, very _un_ moved by all that, gave him a dead eyed stare. "Jim, the guy claims to be a logic based being, yeah?" He got a nod. "If he resented the way we treat him, wouldn't the 'logical' thing to do be, oh, I don't know, _not_ engage us outside of alpha shift hours? Not sit with us at every big meal? _Not_ invite us to enjoy endless oodles of excitement in games of three dimensional chess?" He sent Jim an especially sardonic look before continuing.  
"Pretty sure he'd'a dropped us like hot potatoes a long time ago if he didn't like us."

"It's only logical," Jim agreed.

"Excuse me, Captain. Doctor?" Said a blue shirted medic paused in the doorway, pretending to knock on the soft partition wall.

"Dr. M'Benga," Jim nodded in greeting.

"Shoot," invited the head of medbay.

"I wanted to give you a heads up, so there wouldn't be any undue surprises: I've started Commander Spock's biobed on a hypothermia prevention cycle and given him a heating blanket," the good doctor informed, taking a step inside and returning the captain's polite nod. "Turned down the lights and all the indicator speakers as well. With any luck and a little quiet; he'll slip into a light healing trance."

"A healing trance, for a _sprain_?" Asked an incredulous McCoy.

With a noncommittal shrug, Dr. M'Benga went on. "His... internal temperature regulator, if you will, is strained. As if, down on the planet, his Vulcan physiology, which is optimized for functioning in extreme heat, was forced to overcompensate for conditions of intense cold for extended periods." He turned his attention to the captain and asked, "Were there no sources of heat? Fire was not possible?"

"Unfortunately, it was go cold or get eaten. I don't know how cold it was in the dead of night though. Slept through it," said Kirk, voice betraying his internal unease.

"That _is_ unfortunate," the only clue that the guy meant what he said, a a little rise and fall of his shoulders as he heaved a sigh. "I hope that you're recovery will be swift and relatively pleasant. I will do what I can to make Commander Spock's such as well." Then with a quick turn of the head and a, "Doctor. Captain," he was off.

"He remind you, little bit, of a certain pointy eared someone?" McCoy mused aloud. Wisely not expecting an answer.

"Okay. _Now_ I feel like shit," the captain lamented.

"None of that was in any way your-"

"I never thought to ask how he was feeling, Bones! It's just- He looked..."

"Like Spock?" Offered the doctor.

" _Fine_ , Bones. He looked fine," he corrected, eyes casting themselves downward. "So I assumed his Vulcan-ness got him off scot-free."

"Yeah, hate to break it to ya, Jim, but that's kinda how most of us flawed humans operate," comforted, perhaps, the captain's long time friend. "You know Spock; if you'd asked, he'd've brushed it off and said he was 'functioning nominally, Captain', McCoy imitated. Getting the inflection so-so.

"...Doesn't make it okay that I-"

"I, I, I. Me, me, me. Give it a rest, ya baby. Consider **his** feel-... _thoughts_ on the subject. He's probably, somewhere deep, deep down in that Vulcan brain of his, 'pleased' that both of you made out alright. In the end." The doctor reached out and gave his patient a light bop on the shoulder. Then a tiny smile when it made him cringe.  
"Like I said: baby." 

"Sometimes I really hate you, Bones," Jim sighed.

"Yeah, well sometimes, it's justified," McCoy sighed back. "Most times, it's _mutual_." Captain Kirk swiped at his chief medical officer, who dodged in the nick of time. The while, giving him a look that said, 'I own you'.  
"Don't make me sedate you."

"You wouldn't," Jim said, a squint backing him up.

"Don't try me," came the warning the captain _wanted_ to believe was a bluff. Still, Jim was the first to break eye contact. Just in case.  
With a victorious chuckle, McCoy turned and started for the door. "Since you're _so_ worried about your little Vulcan friend, I'm gonna check up on him, personally." Turning back to the biobed, his face practically serious, he added, "Anything comes up, you'll be first to- no. M'Benga'll be first." He paused, giving his head a perplexed scratch. "I'll let ya know, anyway. Get some rest, Jim. That's an or-"

"Yeah, 'an order'. I got it," Jim said, making a show of settling into his pillow and closing his eyes.

"Hmph," was the last he heard of the doctor. Spock must have been okay after all.  
So Jim devoted some time to pretending to be asleep and, eventually, his whirring mind even slowed enough that he didn't need to _concentrate_ to keep his eyes closed.  
Never knew when Bones might pop his head in, 'you're not _sleeping_ ' hypo at the ready.  
It was safer this way.

 

~

 

The minute Beta shift hit and the changing of the ship wide guard was complete, Jim let his eyes relax wide open.  
The captain hadn't been able to sleep a wink. Not with the threat of sedation looming over him like Death's shadow. And not without... huh. He couldn't hear Spock from his bed, in his private little curtained off corner section.  
He ran a hand through his hair, wondering how in God's name that _wasn't_ a good thing. Had he somehow gotten _used_ to that stupid, cramped cave setup? 

Jim, suddenly feeling both awake _and_ restless, threw off his comfy cover and swung his legs over the side of the biobed. Bare feet complaining as they hit the cold, tiled floor. 

He crept from his 'do not disturb' medical birthing, through the murk of a severely dimmed medbay, over to an unusually festooned bed in which rested the veritably **buried** form of his first officer. 

Not sure why he felt the compulsion, he inched closer to get a good look at the green blooded burrito, taking care not to disturb-

"Captain? Have you been prescribed an exercise regiment already?" 

Never mind. Damn Spock's Vulcan ears.

"Shh. I'm supposed to be sleeping," whispered a Jim who wasn't interested in being found out. And subsequently sedated into next week.

"...As am I," whispered back a Spock who, for once, seemed to be on board with breaking the rules.

"Doctors," Jim said with an eye roll. "Psh. Who needs them, right?" 

Spock's raised eyebrow, visible even in that abysmal excuse for minimum safety requirement lighting, was answer enough.

"Fine. _We_ do," said Jim, making sure the biobed next to Spock's was switched off before taking a seat facing his first officer.  
"No need for that," he assured when his pointy eared friend made a move to pull back his heating blanket and sit up. "Stay toasty. M'Benga said you have to."

"And you should be resting in bed. Dr. McCoy said you 'have to'." 

"Touché, not bad Spock. But, as you can clearly see, I _am_ in bed. So we're in the clear," came the captain's attempt at smoothing out the Vulcan's compunction.  
It didn't seem all that effective. 

"You are _on_ a bed. I do not think that is what Leonar- the doctor had in mind," said Spock, small falter not going unnoticed by his company.

"Hm. You have a point there. Good thing I don't care what Bones 'has in mind'," he said, not missing the hint of worry in those drawn eyebrows.  
"By the way: Thanks for not letting me die. Even though I was... inconsiderate and a total ass," Jim said. Making sure his face lent the sentiment the weight it deserved.

"Sentient beings are generally not at their best when cold, hungry, and in pain. No thanks are necessary." Spock looked like he meant what he said.

"Yeah, well, _you're_ sentient and I've hardly seen you at a _better_ ," Jim said with a rather large, one armed gesticulation.  
"And for future reference, Spock: The appropriate response to being thanked, by a human anyway, is 'you're welcome'," Jim advised. Hoping that this time, something about common Terran courtesy might stay with the Vulcan.

"You _were_ welcome, Jim." Their eyes met and held at the words. "I did not think you might feel otherwise." Regret almost perceptible in the Vulcan's tone.

Jim's face broke into a subdued grin, "Yeah, Spock. It _was_ rather... implicit." He broke off their little stare. "It's good to hear anyway. Thanks, Spock."

Jim thought the science officer's mouth might've twitched up at one corner, but put that out of his mind best he could. Spock didn't _do_ smiley- the thought was _ridiculou_ -  
"You are welcome, Jim."

Jim, unabashed in the gloom of a deserted medbay, did nothing to suppress the smile that felt big enough for the both of them.  
"...I think I'm ready for a little of that rest I've been 'ordered'. Night, Spock," said the captain, slipping under the covers of his new biobed and snuggling in.

"...Good night, Jim."

 

McCoy, from the anonymity of a shadowed doorway, watched as his patients settled. Listened as the strange, not quite human heartbeat coming through the biobed speaker slowed to a pace indicative of a fast approaching death, and crossed his arms. Musing that he'd never get used to that trance whatsit, mumbo-jumbo M'Benga assured him was completely 'natural'. For Vulcans. 

Hearing something else he'd been waiting hours for, he emerged from his hiding shroud and walked across the room to stand between the two beds.  
Yep. **Out** like lights. The two were finally listening to doctors' orders.  
Huh. He should have put them next to each other to start with. He'd have to remember that for next time. Not that he hoped there _was_ a 'next time'. 

'Cause he _didn't_. 

"Couple'a big babies. That's what they are," he grumbled to himself. Silenced medical tricorder reassuring him of anything the sound of easy sleep itself couldn't.  
"No wonder they need babysitting," mumbled the chief medical officer, and therefore highest ranking _conscious_ officer aboard the Enterprise.

He glanced between his captain and first officer, popped off a sarcastic salute, and about faced. **Ready** for a little shut eye himself.

Reaching the door to freedom, he slowed just a tad and grinned to himself. "Maybe I'll ask Chapel to mix up some formula for them. Heh heh."

 

Upon waking sometime well into Alpha shift hours, the two in the biobeds received plates of food which, unbeknownst to them, had narrowly escaped being liquidated and served in infant suckling bottles.  
Both bedridden officers, unable to parse the strange, bashful looks the good Nurse Chapel kept trying to hide from them, looked to each other and shrugged. A mutual decision reached that: If it was important, they'd hear about it soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha! Well, there's already a little something lurking in the wings which could probably be coaxed out with a bit of time and patience. With any luck, I'll have something more to publish before we actually attain casual beam transportation capabilities. Wish me luck! ;D  
> Hope everyone's doing great and having a great time! Till next opening night,  
> ~Anonymous

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! This story was originally posted in 2013 as a birthday present for my wonderful sister who, like me, is all about Star Trek. TOS, New Trek, mugs with the bridge crew's faces plastered across in gaudy colors, you name it! Though we haven't come across any such mugs yet...  
> My sis asked me to write a fic starring James T. Kirk and Spock. I was more than happy to oblige! Regardless of the fact that I hadn't written a shred of fanfiction in years.
> 
> Anyway, I had too much fun writing this first chapter, same with the second, and will definitely be continuing the story. I can't guarantee speedy updates, but I have the majority of a third chapter written and will be taking a valiant stab at not succumbing to writers block. Yay!
> 
>  
> 
> P.S.  
> Thanks a bunch for reading!


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